It was humid outside. I remember the porch door squeaking as it opened and shut and how we left our Grandmother's home to drive to the church down the road. It was a country road in Georgia, dotted with farms and new crops peaking up from the ground. The sun hadn't come up yet, so we walked and laughed in almost a whisper. Because in the hush of early morning, it is only natural to speak quietly.
It had been a tradition in my husband's family to attend a Sunrise Breakfast on Easter. Although the church was not of our faith, we decided to give tribute to where my MIL and her family grew up with that tradition in their tiny town.
I don't remember what was said in the sermon or who the Preacher was. I don't remember how old my daughter was. I don't even remember what the exact time was. Was it 6am? Was it 6:30? What was I wearing? Did I put on my Sunday best? Or were my eyes so tired from family fun the night before, comfy jeans were the attire of choice?
Instead, what I doremember is feeling the new golden sun on my back even before it reached my eyes. I do remember the metal folding chairs we sat on outside and the dew touching my sandals to release wet drops all over my skin. I do remember the eggs and pancakes served directly afterwards. And how I asked the cook how she made them so delicious. And how she replied "butter."
I do remember leaving the tiny church feeling renewed and loved with family by my side. I remember knowing who my Redeemer was. And that His death and His resurrection allowed me to be there that day. How he gave me the opportunity to worship Him outside a tiny church in the dew of the morning as the sun's warmth hit my back. To understand his plan for me. To know of his radiant love for me and my family that expands past every farm on that road in Georgia and across the world. That his sacrifice will allow me to be with Him again one day. How he let me partake in the glory of country scrambled eggs and relish in the flavor of life.